


Blood and Roses

by RuDelKhae



Category: Conan Exiles (Video Game), Conan the Barbarian & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Conan Exiles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Third Person, Plot, Racism, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Video & Computer Games, Voyeurism, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuDelKhae/pseuds/RuDelKhae
Summary: The Exiled Lands are a place for criminals of all walks of life to die in. Whether they stay on their cross, walk through the Cursewall, or are taken by the monsters that roam the desert. It is of no concern to the fortunate living far and away from these desolate lands.Ruber, a new exile, has been cut down from his cross and left with the choice: to lay down and die at the foot of his lover's cross, or to fight and live the only way an exile can. It isn't long before he stumbles into another exile named Korgoth, though the Darfari's intentions are unclear, and Ruber fears him to be just as treacherous as the rest of the miserable lands. But he's the only chance he's got at surviving the wilds... and himself.





	1. The First Steps are Always the Hardest

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Special thanks to Anacoana for helping me edit and revise!

Here hangs Ruber The Cimmerian

Condemned to death and exile for crimes including:

Sorcery

Perversion

Unlawful Corruption of a Soldier

Any who removes this body, living or dead, from this cross will be flayed alive along with all members of their family

 

This is what it read, the sign hanging from metal rings they’d pierced in the skin of his belly. He’d had long enough to read it in the moments the wind let it flutter high enough to read the upside-down words, and Gallean’s likely said the same thing. He wouldn’t know, his partner hanging beside him was dead, already mummifying in the unforgiving sun and hostile sands, where not even flies lingered long enough to feed. He’d lost the strength to cry over it days ago.

There were few crimes which did not end with crucifixion in the Exiled Lands. They were foolish to think that by simply believing love could be different they would have fared any kinder a fate. What ignorance, what pride, made them feel that they would be spared the tragedy of having their families slaughtered, tearing out the filth of their actions by the root. That they would not feel the lash and the beatings so many others had endured.

He hardly even remembered being brought beyond the Cursewall, and less he remembered of them putting the serpent bracelet on his arm. For a long while he wondered if it were some dreaded dream, but the freezing cold of the bracelet on his arm in the heat of the desert was no dream. It took for Gallean to finally fall silent for him to wonder when he might finally die. Even when the despair had turned to hope and then to blame, Ruber hadn’t realized just how much that voice had kept him alive. As he shut his eyes, he thought it might be for the last time.

He thought he was hallucinating the voice that offered to cut him down. The brief image of a man standing below his cross when he managed to flutter his eyes open for a fleeting moment. And then his back walking away with the hot sand beneath him.

“It might have been kinder to leave you on the cross,” he said, “We will meet again.”

He wasn’t sure how much longer he laid there, but upon waking, he was still laying naked in the hot sun, taken down from his cross and with his criminal banner torn from the rings on his body, nowhere to be found. Whoever cut him down was long gone with nary a footprint to be seen in the ever-shifting dunes.

As he opened his eyes to the glaring light he saw, on a flat black stone a waterskin that seemed at least partially full. It would have seemed he had a choice. To leave the water, to lay down and die with Gallean. Or to drink the water and have a chance to live. But of course there was no choice, his mind went half crazed as he spotted it, and he found the strength in his bones to scramble over to it and drain what he could, ignoring the note which the wind whipped away as soon as he lifted the skin.

There was no wine, no ecstasy that he had ever known like drinking this stale water from a sand coated waterskin. He nearly made himself sick with how quickly he drank, and fearing he would lose it to the sands, he slowed, though his body demanded more. Easing more mouthfuls into his parched belly, his mind began to clear, slowly. Blinking and shaking his pounding head he only saw more black stones leading into a road leading away from his cross.

Away from Gallean.

“Gallean,” he said, throat rough and raw from weakened silence and choking sand, “If you are alive tell me now.” He dared not turn around. He could not. If Gallean was dead he’d rather remember him living, laughing and bright like they once were, not some drying corpse in a wasteland. “If you are still with me Gallean you must tell me now,” his words came as a sob, though a tearless one, with no water to feed them. Nothing broke the silence behind him but the sound of the wind tearing over the hissing sand.

He followed the path and did not turn back.

X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------X

The black stones twisted and turned through the dunes like a serpent wandering with the energy of the sun on its back, and Ruber wondered momentarily what magic kept the path clear. He did not linger on the thought long. No magic could be benevolent in the Exiled Lands. Crom help him.

He could not decide if it was fortunate or not that the path ended quickly at the ruins of some sort of temple. Only standing archways remained.

He did not see the beast until he was nearly on top of it and it stood, a monstrous bat unfurling its wings and roaring at him. The gust from its wings thwarted his first instinct to run as fast as his weary legs would carry him in the other direction as it brought him to his knees, but to his great relief it had been startled and flew away, leaving behind the corpse of a man sprawled over the stone.

The man’s body had been battered, and his armor shredded, though he wore no serpent bracelet. It seemed he was a soldier of some sort, a journal laying nearby Ruber assumed had belonged to him complained of a sandstorm and creatures in it, and he doubted the great bat-like creature had killed the man. It was probably just scavenging some other monster’s leftovers. He thanked Crom he had been taken down from his cross before whatever it was came back. The body looked fresher than anything else he’d seen here. The armor the dead man wore was less fortunate, broken and torn beyond use. He took a disappointed sip from the waterskin, fearing how empty it was quickly becoming.

Continuing on was his only option, but it seemed the stone path stopped here. Beyond was an expanse of sand and great tall sandstone mesas, but it was the only way to go and the sun was starting to sink lower in the sky. Who knew what beasts lurked in the dark of the night here. He needed to find shelter quickly. An overhang, a patch of brush, anything.

His hopes lifted as he spotted what he dared to hope were trees between the monumental stones. Trees meant water, and he hurried his pace accordingly. Arriving at the first trees he had seen, he nearly wept to see the game trails leading low into a lush, grassy haven full of palms and leafy brush. He dared to think he spotted a rabbit. And of course, water. A whole river of it. He breathed easier, knowing it was there, but only for a moment before a strange grunt and the sound of hurrying feet across sand startled him.

It was a terrifying sight. The creature running towards him looked nearly human, though terribly warped with scrawny, malnourished legs, and a top half so over-burdened that it hardly seemed to have a head. It was a wonder how it didn’t topple over from its hunched form.

But that he would wonder after he’d downed it, as it scurried towards him as fast as its impish legs would allow. He did not have time to think as he struck out at it, trying to evade its mangled, claw-like hands that tore at him, managing to rip one of the rings from his belly. It was odd and wrong and soft beneath his hands. More like he was bashing at the soft skull of an infant than that of a fully grown creature, only adding to the wrongness he felt just by touching the slimy thing. It wasn’t a sensation he ever wanted to feel again he thought quite firmly as it finally toppled over dead in front of him with a slack jaw full of filed or broken teeth, and bulging eyes staring up at the hot blue sky. His first notion of it being like a twisted person didn’t seem to be far from the mark the more he looked at it. He didn’t like looking at it. Thankfully, while they stung, the wounds the strange creature had inflicted didn’t seem too dire, though he’d have to find something to stave off infection.

He heard a roar some from ahead and saw two more hurrying over the dunes towards him. Unsure of how he might fare with two of the monsters at him, and with enough distance between them he ran instead. Some might call him a coward, but he would be fine with it as long as he could also be called alive.

He bolted down the game trail, hoping to lose them among the rocks and trees, and if that didn’t work maybe he could climb out of their reach or find a sharp stone to defend himself with. _Something_.

The something he’d had in mind was not tripping over a small turtle-like creature and falling flat on the hard earth with it squealing beside his ear. Worse, that something was not the much, _much_ bigger one that reared back on two feet and uttering a devastating alarm call as its red shell flushed vibrantly. He’d hardly gotten to his feet before it charged.

Thankfully he was still faster than it, though he kept a quick stride as he quickly learned it was capable of impressive leaps. Terrifyingly so as it landed, slamming its massive arms into the ground. If it didn’t kill him with its first hit, he’d be crushed alive and slowly dying unless it decided to hit him again. If it did catch him, he hoped it wasn’t something that was easily bored.

Then he saw it.

He wasn’t at all sure he had. But there, between the trees he saw sandstone blocks carefully arranged into a wall. A manmade building. Two of them he saw quickly, and made for the nearer one, hurrying around it to find the door and threw himself inside, praying that the beast chasing him would keep running, or at least lose his scent as he tucked himself into a far corner from where he thought the beast would be approaching. The building was conspicuously empty, with only a thin layer of very fine sand over the stone floors and kicked up with the creature’s breath as he heard it sniff for him through cracks in the wall and stomp its massive legs aggressively. He watched the sand kick up closer and closer to him as he quietly tried to edge himself along the walls away from the clouds that kept puffing up with it’s hot breath.

Then suddenly, it stopped, and Ruber heard it bang its arms against the ground with a sudden rage, and he feared it would next try breaking the wall down for all its frustration. He threw his arms over his head and curled in on himself, waiting for it to come bursting through the wall. But the beast never appeared, though he could hear it roaring and grunting as if it were fighting with something, and then everything went unsettlingly quiet.

He stood silently as he could and went to the wall where he’d last heard the beast and peered through a gap in the stone just in time to see a figure disappear from view and he heard the sound of human footsteps coming around the building. He was helpless, staring like a trapped doe at the door with nothing to do but wait at the footsteps paused just before it.

The door was pushed in with unhurried ease with the end of a large sword, gleaming with the blood of the creature that had chased him here. He put up his fists defensively, though he had absolutely no clue what chance he might stand, and the unsure thought echoed in his head louder and louder as the room was slowly brightening with the daylight pouring in through the doorway until at last he saw the figure behind the weapon.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to see the man’s features, though he could tell quickly that he was quite large with wide shoulders that hefted the sword with ease and kept it pointed at him as he seemed to consider the man who had unexpectedly appeared in his spare building.

A cloud passed over and Ruber was granted the man’s face, his skin deep and rich like terra cotta, his hair shaved bald at the sides and gathered into many long braids at the center of his head that he tied together to keep out of the way. He glared out under a deeply lowered brow that furrowed in contemplation with eyes that reminded him of gold coins. His nose had a prominent hook to it over lips that women back home might have killed for, like a bee-stung rose petal.

The man shifted then, seemingly having come to a conclusion as he settled his grip more firmly on his sword and set his brow like a man who meant to kill. He took a step closer.

Ruber dropped the fists he’d been holding then and cowered with his hands facing palm out in surrender.

“Wait, wait! I mean you no harm!” he gasped out, and the man stopped and pointedly looked him over, no doubt wondering what harm he could have meant to bring, naked, starving, and alone. He winced inwardly and cleared his throat, “I come in peace. I am Ruber of Cimmeria.”

“No,” the man spoke in a way that sounded more like it was part of a distant roll of thunder. It made him shiver as his blade came to his belly and tapped against the remaining metal ring in his skin, it stung as it moved with the cold iron. “You are Ruber the exile.” And like that, he turned to leave.

“Wait!” Ruber called softly. The man stopped, but did not turn back to him. “What is your name?” The man did not answer immediately as he tilted his head as he seemed to think about the question.

“Korgoth.” A name, he had a name to call him. The very thought that he knew the name of just one person out in this wasteland was like air after being smothered. He was madly giddy with it.

“Of?” he asked hopefully.

“The Darfari.” Korgoth looked over his shoulder then to his stunned silence and look of shock before he stepped back outside and shut the door behind him.

Ruber had simply jumped straight into the fire. All the better to be roasted alive and eaten by the cannibal Darfari and their monstrous god Yog. There was nowhere to go now. Nowhere to run in a wasteland of horrors and more exiles. He could only sink to the ground and huddle in on himself as he waited for the end in the cannibal’s larder.


	2. Strange Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrified and naked, Ruber quickly realizes not all is as it seems, and luck, perhaps even Crom himself, is on his side.

He waited and paced and then sat quietly as the dark room only grew darker with the setting of the sun, and then there was a faint glow of firelight flickering through the gaps of the doorway. Any moment now, the cannibals would come for him. He waited to hear their drums and chanting, just as his mother had warned him about when he was a naughty child. She _told_ him. If he disobeyed and broke the law, he would be cast out as an exile and be roasted alive by cannibals with animal teeth and hair done up like horns. Of course, she had left out the part where she and all the rest of his family were slaughtered first.

Gallean would know better. He was the one who should have been here. He was the warrior, not Ruber. If he were here, he’d have the Darfari’s head rolling in the sand with his own sword. If he were here, they wouldn’t have run from those disturbing imps or incurred the wrath of the beast that chased him here. If Gallean were here he’d…

But Gallean wasn’t here. He was dead on a cross out in the wasteland with his body either being eaten by some wandering scavenger, or drying to a desiccated husk. He wasn’t certain which he considered the greater of two evils. He deserved a proper burial, something deserving of a warrior like him. No matter what those back home had said, Gallean was a good man, a kind man, and the best damn soldier he’d ever seen. He hoped to Crom some raiders were burning the town to the ground as he sat and wallowed. Their defenses would be nothing without his Gallean.

 _He_ was nothing without his Gallean. What was he so afraid of dying for anyway? What was the point of fearing this wasteland? He could die here and quickly with a blade across his throat, or slowly of thirst out in Crom knew where as he wandered. Or by some stroke of luck he might live and go on to help the next poor soul make their way down from their cross. What happened now, just happened and there was no helping it.

He stood before his resolve left him and went to the door, leaning his weight carefully upon it to test what lock or barring kept it shut. But instead it gave easily. He froze, completely stunned. He uttered a distressed whimper that nearly gave way to a frustrated scream. Unlocked this whole time. At any time, he might have run. Simply bolted out the door. What game were the damned cannibals playing at?

No game of course. Where could he have run? Anywhere else was bound to be full of monsters, especially creeping about at night. They didn’t lock the door because they knew, even as cattle waiting for slaughter, this was the safest place he could be.

The revelation drained him and he let out a long sigh as he ran his hands through his hair and stared at the door.

He hesitated this time as he went to touch the it, like he feared it might bite him, and he pushed it open gently. Peering through the crack he saw no one. He opened it wider, and still the area seemed empty. With a cautious hand he kept opening the door wider until he stood in the open doorway, confused by no small amount as he looked about.

The second building was between him and the fire, offset just to the side and surrounded by a small fence and with a set of stairs leading up to the roof. A tanning rack with a fresh hide stretched over it obscured his full view of the fire over the low fence. There could yet be people sitting around it that he couldn’t see. It took more than one man on his own to build all of this.

Ruber crept from the building as quietly as he could over the rough and worn earthen patches and crouched behind the fence to spy who could be tending what appeared to be such a large fire. No doubt that would draw unwanted attention to a lone man.

But Korgoth was indeed very much alone, sat on a hide mat as he planted stakes into the ground with red meat impaled on their sharp ends. There was only the lonely gleam of a serpent’s bracelet on his wrist. It didn’t surprise Ruber that he might be an exile. It was where cannibals and murderers belonged. He probably ate the rest of whoever he was with. It wasn’t like there were many like him running around helpless and naked in the Exiled Lands to hunt like simple game. They at least had the other beasts to compete with. What was a cannibal to eat then?

He felt considerably better though. It was just one man he was against then, better than a tribe. What could one man do compared to that?

Ruber knew exactly what one man could do. Gallean had the strength of ten men, people had whispered he was the son of Conan himself. It wasn’t true of course, but people did love to talk.

The gleam of iron in the firelight caught his eye. If he could just steal his sword away, maybe he could make him talk. He must have some group of civilized people to prey on, and a sword at one’s throat loosened many tongues. If his luck had not yet run out, he was sure he could follow the Darfari’s directions to a safe haven. He just needed that sword.

Standing ever so stealthily he swung one leg over the fence, freezing as Korgoth shifted his weight, and quickly pulled his other leg over. He crawled quickly on his hands and knees over to the other side and peered over the top.

Korgoth appeared to be taking his braids out of their tie and swinging the gleaming black braids over one shoulder as he relaxed. Good, all the better to catch him off guard.

He crept over the fence and edged his way nearer, but damn the way the blood pounded in his ears and the way his gut twisted with anxious energy. If he were a man of less courage, he would have worried the cannibal would have heard the racing of his heart. The sword was just a bit behind him, just at a strange enough angle that it might have taken Korgoth a moment to grab it if he needed. Ruber had just a small advantage on that. He just needed to reach out and snatch it as fast as he could. That was all. By Crom he was breathing too loud, how had the man not heard him? No, he must do this. Korgoth had no way of knowing he was behind him. It just took one quick lunge.

He dove for the sword and came back away with it heavy in his hands. The Darfari had even startled to see him there, leaving Ruber with a momentary triumph glowing on his face. But the way Korgoth relaxed to see it was him felt less victorious.

“Look here you Darfari cannibal,” he started with an uncertain tongue and stopped as Korgoth tilted his head with a quirked brow. Ruber pointed the sword square at his nose in response to it, “I know you know where people are. Good, civilized people. You will tell me where they are and I will be on my way at first light.”

The Darfari made a noise in the back of his throat, like a short bark of laughter. Damn him, it was. Nothing more than a laugh and a smirk crawling over his lips as he palmed the blade and took it with a quick jerk out of Ruber’s hands and him with it to his knees. He flinched and quickly covered himself as he braced for the sword to come back at him. A jab from the hilt? The blade letting out his innards? He expected great pain.

It never came, and after a few racing heartbeats, he cracked open an eye. Korgoth was still sitting comfortably in his spot, with his sword carefully placed on his other side as he held out one of his cooking spike out to him with an overly patient look. Ruber nearly retched at the sight of the meat as it dripped with fat, less from the look of it, and more for the horror he felt towards himself over just how good it smelled.

“No! No, I will not stoop to your level. I’d rather starve.” He nearly bit his tongue as he was smacked sharply over the head.

“Shut up. It’s shaleback.” And with that the spike, meat and all was shoved roughly into his hands, and he was left to stare at it uncertainly as Korgoth pulled up another and started eating without even a moment to check if it was cool.

“Not human?” he asked uncertainly. It was only meant for clarification, but it earned him another smack. Still cautious, he sniffed carefully at the morsel he’d been granted and pulled it from the stick, ignoring the slimy grease trickling through his fingers. All it took was a curious nibble, and he needed to use every ounce of his willpower not to immediately devour it, though no amount of inner strength could have prevented to moan that dragged itself from his throat. He hardly registered that he had made the noise until he felt the burn of eyes on him. A glance to Korgoth seemed to prove he was not the culprit as he stared off into the fire to tear the last scraps of meat from a bone with his teeth, but Ruber made an effort to cover himself nonetheless as he became uncomfortably aware of his nudity.

All the while he sat there he could not shake the feeling of someone looking at him, though nobody else seemed to be around, and each peek he sent in the Darfari’s direction saw him quietly minding his own business as he ate with his eyes off in the distance.

“Are there… others around?” he asked tentatively. Korgoth shook his head silently without so much as bothering to look at him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare set of clothes, would you?” He’d hoped for a simple yes or no, maybe where he might find them, but Korgoth decided in that moment to look him over casually, as if he’d only just noticed he was still naked.

He got up then, rather suddenly, and making a point to very obviously take his sword with him as he disappeared into the first building.

Cannibal or no, Ruber very quickly decided that he’d rather the company than being alone in the dark. It absolutely had nothing to do with how the hoot of an animal’s call across the river made him nearly leap out of his skin as he tried to clean the grease from his hands with sand. It was still completely mad that he felt safer the moment Korgoth stepped back outside. He nearly laughed at the nonsense of it. The Exiled Lands were a horrible place as ever he was told, if he felt anything but frightened for his life in the company of a cannibal tribesman. But maybe not quite so bad as the stories said. None of them allowed anything about feeling safe in any capacity. Maybe it was just the new perspective of actually being here.

A pair of pants and sandals were dropped into his lap, both crudely made, even considering the worn and tattered hides Korgoth himself wore, but they were something and he was grateful for them, in a small way at least as he quickly put them on. But even so he could feel eyes on him. He wasn’t sure if he should be calmed by the notion that he knew this time it had at least been Korgoth standing behind him with his arms folded with the same overly patient look on his face.

“Ehr… thank you.” He fought to yank the words from his throat and spit them out upon the ground as his face went hot. The Darfari just laughed that single, short bark in the back of his throat with a smirk again as he fumbled with the ties. He hadn’t struggled this much since his first night with Gallean, but that was to undo them, and this was not at all the line of thought he wanted to go down in front of some (at least momentarily kind) cannibal who was as hostile as his home village to such thoughts for all he knew. But before those bitter thoughts could sink into his head, a roll of hides with short, bristly fur was shoved into his hands.

“Sleep.” Was the last word Korgoth bothered to utter to him with a thumb jutting over his shoulder to the building Ruber had made his grand escape from. Aside from weary bones, he’d hardly consider himself tired enough for sleep, no matter how late into the night it might be. But he was not about to suddenly deny the hospitality he’d been shown and so he hurried off with a muttered goodnight that was answered with only a lazy wave of the hand that seemed more like he was being shooed off.

He found himself being thankful for the hides at least, being a decent cushion against the stone floors, if not the bed he was used to. But exhaustion struck him the moment he laid his head down. How little he had slept while he was up on that cross with the weight of his body held by his arms. What he had managed to claim was sheer fatigue that had overtaken him. It quite honestly no longer mattered what stench of sweat and blood and Crom only knew what else coated the tough hides, or how the rough leggings itched ever so slightly. Sleep, true sleep, overtook him.


	3. Down To The River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well in Ruber's heart as the sting of loss begins to sink deeper.

Ruber drifted easily in the morning light, staring lazily around his hut. There were several pieces of pottery sitting by his wheel that still needed glazing. A couple others would be ready for firing in his kiln out back too. He couldn’t help but smile at the uneven lines and half-done plant decorating one of the bowls.

An artist, his Gallean, was not. Not a painter anyway, but the steady beating of that heart beneath his ear was its own art form. The steady rise and fall of his chest soothed away his nightmares and unwelcome thoughts, and soon the strong hand splayed over his shoulder gently brushed down over his ribs with nonsensical patterns. And he looked up into those sleepy, satisfied hazel eyes that watched him lovingly from underneath that sun-bleached blond bedhead.

“We need to stop doing this,” Ruber hummed with only the slightest meaning behind his words, though he knew he was right to say it anyway. Every night they spent in the same bed was another night and another morning anyone could stumble in on them. The first time had been an accident, a late-night affair that found them falling asleep in each other’s arms afterwards. They had panicked and sent Gallean sneaking out the back, walking on eggshells the whole day until night came again and no one seemed the wiser. They vowed to never let it happen again, but with a taste of what is was to sleep in a warm bed with another body held close beside you, “one last time” hadn’t truly meant anything.

“Hmm good morning to you too.” He lived for that tone, still deep and rough from sleep.

“We could get caught.” The thought sent a worried flutter through his heart, but the strong hand tangling itself in his hair soothed him as Gallean guided him close enough to press his lips to his forehead.

“Don’t care,” he mumbled into his hair, “You and me are going to leave anyway, make our own village.”

“Oh will we?” Ruber laughed quietly and stared out at his own hair spilling over his lover’s chest. Red like blood. It made his gut twist sickly.

“Mhm. We’ll be our own kings. Make our own rules. Love you every night and not care who knows about it.”

Ruber snorted at his lazy mumblings, tamping down the bittersweet feeling it caused to well in his chest. A crown would bring out those gold flecks in his eyes. He always adored them, but they only seemed to come out when he was smiling.

“M’ serious. We walk out of here with what we’ve got and find someplace for just the two of us. Build a nice little house in the woods. Make a garden, you know how to garden right, Ruby? I’ll hunt and keep us safe. Just the two of us. Maybe more people like us will come. It’ll be a little haven.” Ruber pushed himself up to look at his face then. That strong jaw and that charmingly crooked nose that took a few too many hits when he was younger. The way he smiled that pulled at the corners of his lips so gently, it was like he was trying to keep it a secret.

“You really mean that?”

“I’d leave today if you wanted. Just say the word.”

Ruber kissed him breathlessly, savoring the feel of stubble on his cheeks before he shaved again. There was a giddy delight in being with Gallean. A bit of it came from the worry of being caught of course. Maybe even a little from having learned it to be wrong all through his young years. But beyond that was just the overwhelming joy of just being near him, holding him like he hadn’t in a very long time. His heart ached with it.

He pulled away with a devilish grin as he felt Gallean pressed against his thigh. He wanted to say it. To leave and never look back and never again have to worry who might walk in the door. He was going to say it. It was on his tongue as his love cupped his cheek with such a tender look.

X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------X

There was a raucous banging upon the door that startled him awake, and the various cuts and bruises on his body remembered themselves as he jolted at the sudden noise. He groaned pitifully as the door opened with a confused Korgoth standing in the blinding light.

This wasn’t right. Ruber glanced around as he quickly found himself disoriented. This wasn’t his home. This wasn’t his thatched roof. His pottery tools were missing. But he still hadn’t gotten to fire his mother’s new water jug. The coarse fur and hard stone he was laying on wasn’t his bed. And Gallean… Gallean wasn’t here.

And every thought came crashing down. He remembered now. He was in the wasteland with only a Darfari with unknown motivation and morals that were dubious at best. Ruber curled in on himself as his chest ached with all the despair and bitterness the desert could milk from him.

And that cannibal bastard looking down at him like he had all the patience in the world, but couldn’t let him sleep for just a moment more. He held out a waterskin to him by the strap. The outer hide was still dripping, freshly brought to him. But how many gifts had he already accepted? Surely the Darfari would feel he owed him something sometime. He would take no more, not even water.

It seemed to take a while for Korgoth to realize he was being ignored, though Ruber was content to let him waste his time, even as his throat began to hurt from thirst. He finally tossed the water down by his side and went back out the door, whistling like he was calling a dog.

Of course, what dog might a Darfari have? Maybe it was more of those imps. Those distorted little beasts could easily be the work of his twisted god, and even if they weren’t, Korgoth and his kind seemed to share enough kinship with the little monsters and their sharpened teeth that he wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d tamed a few.

Hell, for all he knew the water dripping from the fat, sagging skin was all a trap and it was filled with human blood instead to trick him into joining his twisted cannibalistic ways. He ignored the dry feeling is his throat. He’d endured worse on his cross. It wasn’t like he believed he would live very long out in the desert, and Korgoth was bound to send him off on his own eventually. If he didn’t try to eat him first. No, Gallean would be proud of him. He would _make_ Gallean proud of him. If he did, maybe when Crom saw fit to reunite them he might say those few words they’d never quite gotten around to saying. He might not be a swordsman, but dammit he would keep fighting in these small ways. He’d love him then.

It didn’t take long for the sight of the waterskin to taunt him. He considered throwing it back out the door to earn him some peace away from it, but sitting in his bare little room seemed a poor source of entertainment. He went out instead.

This time he was prepared for the brutish little beasts he’d imagined Korgoth commanding like hunting hounds, his fists clenched and nearly twitched waiting for something to come bolting at him from around the corner. But to his great confusion, Korgoth was alone yet again, this time sitting on his fence like he’d been waiting there for Reber to emerge. He was wary of the Darfari’s purpose, eyeing the sword he kept by his side.

Korgoth didn’t say a word to him as he looked up. He only picked up his sword and whistled again with a nod off in the direction he was heading.

Ruber felt himself turn a furious red. That whistle had been meant for him, called like a dog to follow. He would have spouted many a harsh and well deserved word as he stormed right up to that blasted beast, but a poorly woven basket was shoved in his face for him to take. And then he was off again, leading him towards the river.

“What’s this?” he barked after the Darfari, “A basket for my head? I don’t suppose you have a bowl to catch my blood!”

The cannibal turned to look at him then, with an overly passive look as he stopped to visibly think for a moment. Then, with a snap of his fingers he went back and bent over the fence for a moment, retrieving a wooden bowl which he traded for the basket with a smirk.

Ruber blanched at the strange wet stain that covered the inside of the bowl almost to the rim. Crom have mercy, he was serious. Taking care of him all night long, feeding him, just to slaughter him in the morning. What had been the point of it? One meal did not fatten a pig. Maybe it was just to heighten his sudden fear seeing as it delighted the bastard so.

He barked that short laugh in his face with a smirk, the sadistic fucker. What monster laughed in the face of their prey before the kill? Ruber contemplated how nice that face might look with a big purple bruise around an eye.  He never considered himself any sort of a violent man, but he was determined to give this “Korgoth” a few trophies for his trouble.

But instead the beast of a man shook his head and took the bowl from him and tossed the it into an empty place on the sandy ground. He went off walking towards the river again with a snort and a smack to Ruber’s head with the basket.

A joke, it seemed. A cruel joke indeed to play on someone. What kind of humor was taunting someone with the thought of death by their hands? Ruber considered whether he should push him in the river and see if he could swim. And if he couldn’t maybe let him struggle a bit. Now that would be a fun _joke_.

He didn’t even bother to wait for him by the water, Ruber noticed, having gone on without him as he wandered down the silt edge of it. It was as if he expected him to follow obediently like a trained animal.

The water lapped coolly near his feet, drawing his eye and echoing the dry ache at the back of his throat. He didn’t need that damn barbarian or his waterskin. The water was perfectly fine right here. As a matter of fact, that cannibal, Korgoth could go on as far ahead as he liked. Ruber was going to take his time and take a long, refreshing drink.

He knelt just at the edge so that the knees of his poorly crafted pants quickly became soaked with water, a cold that was refreshing in the heat of the sun. The feeling of the water running over his hands as he cupped them just beneath the surface was a sensation he vowed to never take for granted again in his life. However short that may end up being in this terrible land. He would die a happy man with the sweetness of the water on his tongue. For all the desert’s heat, that water was a crystal crispness worthy of Crom’s own cup. He would gladly drown himself in it to bring Gallean just a sip of it in the afterlife. Better, he would give the whole river to Crom if he gave his love back instead.

He was quickly pulled back and to his feet, clenching his eyes on reflex and there was something pulled at his hair with sudden and violent strength. There was a fresh spray of water and a guttural roar as he was clutched tight in someone’s arms. He opened his eyes to terra cotta skin and thick black braids, the scent of his sweat clung to him like a beast’s musk with the muscles of his neck going taut as he shouted. Ruber pressed a hand against his wide chest to fight the strength that held him close as he turned.

There, a great crocodile lashed angrily, mouth agape, half in the water where Ruber had been kneeling as Korgoth smacked it over the snout with the flat of his blade. Its blunt, uneven teeth flashed, with the water dripping over them in a maw big enough that could have taken his head and shoulders with little issue. The yellow flesh of its mouth opened to the black emptiness of its throat as it bellowed and hissed, slowly retreating back into the water with short, fat legs. Its eyes lingered on the surface for just a moment, glaring at them it seemed, before it disappeared beneath the surface with only the smallest of ripples.

There was an initial impulse to sag in shaken relief in those strong arms. To rest his head over a shoulder and bury his face there just to breathe and let his heart settle.

“You are alright?”

Ruber threw himself away as quickly as he could, scowling.

“Fine.” His voice shook as he trembled from the fright. He wrapped his arms about himself and gritted his teeth as he tried to settle it alone. “You could have grabbed something other than my hair.” Korgoth only scowled in response, and it sent a chill through him. For the first time since he’d arrived, the cannibal seemed truly angry with him.

He cut those flashing white teeth and rolled eyes that gleamed like gold with the light that reflected off the water. Ruber knew he owed the Darfari a thank you. Goodness knows how many times he over now. He knew he needed to say it but the anger in him just wouldn’t let it reach his tongue. He only followed, quiet and obedient behind as Korgoth set back off down the bank of the river.

They were both quiet the whole way, but their journey to wherever the barbarian was leading him was mercifully short. The narrow paths between high sandstone cliffs and the water had him feeling nervous.

He missed Gallean’s soothing touch. His love wouldn’t have let him feel so afraid. Maybe he should have been eaten by the croc. It would have been a much faster and easier way to go that any other death he might find here. He wouldn’t have even known it was coming. It was cowardly. Gallean wouldn’t have wanted to go so easily. He wouldn’t have wanted to go as quietly as he did either. It was all his fault. All his fault. He should have said those words so much sooner. If he’d only said those words they would have left that cursed village and none of this ever would have happened. They could have been happy. He just should have said those words. His thoughts circled about him, drawing him into a darkness he could not see out of.

Korgoth whistled him from it and Ruber could only scowl bitterly at him as he pointed with a snap of his fingers to a strange plant among the usual bushes and dry shrubs. It wasn’t one he was particularly familiar with, having thick, sword-shaped leaves with spines along the edge and tall red flowers in the middle.

The significance of the plant eluded him. Was it poisonous? It would make sense. Of course such a barbarian would use something as treacherous as poison. What better way to hunt another human than with trickery and unfair advantages. Easy enough when he had someone else’s hands to harvest it. Less chance of killing himself on the toxic plant. That bastard.

He wasn’t sure to think of it a better or worse way to die than the crocodile. At least do die by the water beast he wouldn’t have seen it coming. But there was the worry that it might be painful. Crocodiles didn’t always kill quickly. Would poison be painful?

Korgoth kicked his basket lightly in the plant’s direction and drove his sword into the loose earth beside it. He knelt down easily and took one of the thick leaves into his hands without hesitation. Not toxic then. Ruber was almost sorry for it. He would have liked to try and use it on the cannibal before it killed him. He broke the leave off with just a bit of effort and put it into the basket. The Darfari looked up at him expectantly then, and indicated for him to come and do the same with a jerk of his head.

Of course, Ruber’s initial reaction was to cross his arms. Poison or no, anything this barbarian wanted couldn’t be good. Why in Crom’s good, green world would he help this cannibal to do anything? But then, what if it was food? He’d never known a person to survive on just meat, even the Darfari needed some sort of plant matter to sustain them when people weren’t available. Or maybe to go with it. He’d half a mind to ask if carrots and parsnips went just as well with human as with beef, but who knew if the bastard might take him seriously.

He settled down at the opposite side, all the better to keep an eye on this Korgoth creature, and took hold of one of the larger bottom leaves. The spines along its edges dug into the palms of his hands, not quite sharp enough to break the skin, though they reminded him of every pain he felt. It was a tiring thought as he broke it off and added it to the basket. But even so, he was oddly content. The hours had blended together on his cross, and ever since his time had been filled with waiting and worry and fear. Gathering this plant, whatever its purpose, was a mundane thing that kept his mind and his hands busy. He even managed to ignore the quiet Darfari, though he had sat across from him with the express purpose on keeping an eye on him. He was calm for all of a moment.

Then he noticed the barbarian had stopped and was looking at him strangely. His eyes almost seemed to be glimmering with the slightest amused pull to his lips. If Ruber hadn’t known better, he would have imagined he was thinking.

“What?” he bit the word on its tail.

“Aloe.”

“Hello, what?” he repeated less patiently. Had this beast forgotten they already met?

“You are aloe,” Korgoth smiled, holding up one of the fat leaves, “Green like your eyes,” and he pointed to the flowers, “red like your hair. Aloe!”

Compared to a plant. Was that this beast’s attempt at a compliment? Gallean had called him his Ruby, his eyes compared to peridot. The very jewel he had brought back on a necklace for him. That he never wore, save for when they were alone. And how he loved to see it on him, how he said it made his eyes shine. But it was always Gallean’s eyes who sparkled to see it. All that pride in seeing his gift enjoyed and well cared for. He could almost feel those rough and calloused fingers tracing over the cool metal again, up and over his collarbone and up to his jaw and his chin. He missed that touch. He missed it and it hurt more than any cut or bruise he could bear, making his eyes burn and his chest ache. And he didn’t need this barbarian reminding him of it all.

“Why don’t you do us both a favor and shut up, just shut up!” he spat.

The barbarian sat up straighter then as he reeled away from his angry declaration with something a lot like hurt in his eyes. Ruber didn’t care. What did it matter what this cannibal shit felt? He hurt, and it felt sickeningly better to watch someone else hurt too. Maybe now it would just leave him be. He didn’t care about what plant it thought he looked like. He didn’t care that it brought him water or food. He didn’t care if he never heard that barking laugh again. He just wanted to be left alone to stop hurting. He wanted someone else to hurt so he didn’t have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this fic is still going! I'm sorry I took so long to get this chapter out, but life has had a bit of a party throwing shit my way. They say the god's won't give you more than you can handle, but as my dad put it: I really wish they'd stop trying to figure out where that is.  
> Anyway, enough of my whining. I'm currently doing camp nanowrimo for my novel, so I this fic is going to be coming out pretty slow so I can catch up with my word count on there too. Afterwards I plan on keeping this on a regular weekly/biweekly schedule. Until then, thank you all so much for your comments and kudos. I really wasn't expecting it so quickly (or at all with the lack of fics for this fandom). I hope you all liked this extra feelsy chapter! <3


	4. Worth Fighting For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruber is haunted by the memory of the day he and Gallean were caught. What did he say? What stayed Gallean's hand? Hadn't he been worth fighting for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Homophobia & Slurs

His arm was wrenched up behind his back, pulling him to his feet. Ruber felt the cold edge of a knife at his throat. There was so much shouting. People were screaming. There was so much blood. So much blood. Men dying in the sunlit road. His lover’s blade was red.

“Stand down, Gallean.” That grey bastard had shouted all but in his ear. He felt the roughness of his beard on his cheek, “Drop your sword or I’ll slit your trophy faggot’s throat.” The clash of metal had gone quiet, though guards clattered about in their armor. Nobody wanted to step forward. Not anymore with some young boy in a man’s armor choking on his own blood. He just wanted to shut his eyes and look away. He didn’t want to see it. He did it. He didn’t want to see it.

Gallean was looking at him. He was looking at the fucker keeping a knife under his jaw. His sword and shield were still in his hands. 

“Just put it down, it’ll make this all easier,” Elder Barcan had said. Ruber could feel his lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. 

“Tell him it isn’t true!” He could hear his little brother cry to him, though his older brother stared at him with loathing from his knees, twisting his hands at the knots binding his hands behind his back, like he was waiting to get them around his throat. His mother just looked tired. 

Gallean’s sisters were weeping with their mother. His father screamed himself purple, repeating a hysterical mantra of “You are not my son.”

“Tell them it isn’t as it seems,” his brother went on, “Tell them!” 

“Tell him to put is sword down,” Barcan hushed in his ear, “say it!” 

“I hate you!” his older brother snarled.

“Tell him.”

“I hate you!”

“You are not my son!”

“I hate you!”

“Tell him!”

What did he say? What words slipped from his tongue? The knife was cold. He cried. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want anyone to die. He wanted them all to die. It hurt. He was a coward. 

“Fight back,” he trembled and shook, “Kill them all. Keep fighting!” he wept. It wasn't what he said. He was so afraid to die. 

“I hate you!”

“Kill him!”

“You are not my son!”

Gallean looked at him. It was a long look, like his heart were breaking. He dropped his sword.

Ruber screamed at him. He couldn’t remember what he said. It all sounded muffled and dark, like everything were under water. The shouting of the men who charged him. The sound of Gallean brought to his knees. 

Tell him. 

I hate you.

Kill them all.

X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------X

He woke with a frightened gasp to a hand on his shoulder, quickly jerking away only to hit his head on the stone wall behind him. He winced and covered the sore spot with his hands as he glared all of his dream-wrought anger onto Korgoth. 

I hate you.

How long had he been asleep? They had made their way back quietly, and arriving back at the stone buildings Korgoth had set to work with a knife, cutting the pieces of aloe in a methodical manner. Ruber had sat against the fence, curled his knees to his chin and rested his eyes. He only meant to rest his eyes. No, he wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget he was here. He wanted to go back to bed with Gallean. To wake in his arms. He didn’t want to remember.

He only wished he had told Gallean to fight back. How many days ago had it been? Weeks maybe? He wished he had been so brave.

What could he have said? He had wept with fear. He was a coward. Such a coward. He should have told him. He should have said it. Those words. Three words. 

I love you. 

Kill them all. 

I hate you.

There was a gentle hand on his cheek. The pad of a thumb running gently under his eye, feeling the wetness of a tear being brushed away. He smacked and it and got to his knees. He had never been a violent man. But the feeling of his anger lashing out was a relief from it wrapping itself around his heart and deep in his gut. When it settled back again it just felt all the more bitter. 

And then there was the patience and pity looking down at him. He didn’t like it.

I hate you.

Korgoth held out the bowl from earlier. He expected it to be full of blood. A cannibal’s peace offering, again trying to feed him from the body of another person. Trying to make him join in his disgusting ways. The odd goo that was inside it was less intimidating. 

And what was _he_ to do with it? I glared up with accusation to the barbarian above him. Was it supposed to be food? Some sort of glue maybe to work on some menial task he meant for him to complete? 

Korgoth sighed and rolled those animal-gold eyes. He sat on his heels and Ruber had half a mind to push him over, rather than having that pitying, patient face at his level. What did a cannibal know of pity? This close his skin even looked like the pottery he would pull from a kiln. He missed that. He didn’t like that he missed that.

The Darfari dipped his fingers into the bowl and held them out to him. The clear slime repulsed him, and its purpose still eluded him. Then he reached those ooze-covered fingers towards him. It was slow. A snail’s pace as Ruber sneered down at those hands in disgust. He meant to put this strange substance on him. To touch him. He was going to pull away, to lash out at that hand again. As if he would ever allow this Darfari savage to lay so much as a finger on him. He’d had an excuse with the crocodile. But this—touched by a savage? What would Gallean think? 

Gallean. Gallean wasn’t here. Gallean didn’t have a right to think anything about what he did anymore. He lost it when he put down his sword. Why didn’t he fight back? Wasn’t he worth fighting for? How many times had he been told the only reason he went marching out anymore was so he could come marching home to him? To keep him safe. 

Kill them all.

He didn’t fight back. He didn’t keep him safe.

Tell him. 

He wasn’t here to protect him now. He wasn’t here to keep him safe. 

I hate you.

Why did he put down his sword?

I love you.

He flinched at the cool feeling of Korgoth’s slime-coated fingers spreading it over one of the shallow cuts on his arm. It was… soothing. The pain of the bruised flesh around it dulled slightly as the barbarian went with feather light touches He was watching his face with a frown. 

He was trying to heal him. The cannibal. In the Exiled Lands. Offering him a soothing balm from an oasis in the desert wasteland. Would Gallean have known about this plant? Would Gallean have been able to protect him. With nothing? No, no he wouldn’t have. Because Gallean threw it all away. Gallean died on his cross. He stopped fighting for him back in the village. Why would he have fought to stay alive for him? 

He didn’t think he was worth it anymore. He wasn’t worth the price of his ruined life. He wasn’t worth starting over. He wasn’t worth more than a tumble in bed when he came marching back home. 

I love you.

He never said those words. 

Tell him.

He was never going to say those words, was he? 

I hate you. 

Korgoth’s hand came down to the metal ring, still pierced in his belly, turning it gently as he looked at the dried blood. He winced and covered it with his hand, glaring at the barbarian. Was he taking his pain away or making it worse? The damn bastard could at least make up his mind!

Ruber pushed him away then, his gut twisting in panic. He meant to take it out. He looked down at the old, green bruise around it, and the twin scab on his other side. It was painful, no matter how gently it was turned or twisted. How he had dreaded every gust of wind on his cross that sent his crimes fluttering in the wind. 

But what if it rusted? Perhaps if infection set in? A death sentence. But what did he care about death anymore? 

That was a lie. He very much cared. He was a coward, and a slow, painful, and feverish death was not one he enjoyed the thought of. It had to come out, but he’d prefer to split his own tongue than let the Darfari do it. 

He took hold of the ring. And he let it go. He had to hold it better. Do it quick. He grabbed hold of it again. He pulled experimentally at it, but already the pain sent a wave of nausea through him. No he had to do it quickly, get it over with. Maybe if he stood. 

But on his feet was no better. He paced and tried to steady himself with deep breaths. How much had the other one hurt? He didn’t remember, there had been too many other hurts at the time. His mind had been focused in fear on the strange imp attacking him. It could not have been too bad. The place the other ring had been was scabbed and bruised, but it was only tender if he prodded at it. Just the initial pain to get through. It would only be a moment. He could be brave. 

He hooked a finger through the ring and pulled as hard as he dared. But the pain made his strength retreat as he breathed in short hisses through his teeth. Impossible, that’s what this was. Maybe it would just heal and he could find some other civilized soul out in the desert who could cut it. Yes, if this savage could survive so long in the wasteland, surely someone else, someone more advanced had.

There was that hand on his shoulder again, turning him to face that barbarian. It was warm, burning hot under the roughness of callouses.  He was of a mind to shrug off that hand, when he felt it. A sharp sensation in his gut, and burning. His hand went to his stomach and felt the blood seeping from his belly as he screeched with incredulity and pain, seeing the ring around the index finger of the cannibal. Smiling at him. 

He lashed out without a thought. The shock of pain across his knuckles as they connected with that beastly jaw barely registered with the nauseating agony in his belly. He cursed and spat with all his pain and anger as it rubbed its sore jaw. Fuck it. Fuck that Darfari cunt and everything else in this God forsaken land of exiles. The trickery the land played on him. The danger of the water, though it looked so peaceful. The cruel antics of the cannibal, Korgoth; healing and hurting him at his whim. How he felt so very much alone. Vulnerable and alone. In pain and alone. Tired and alone. Hungry and alone. Gallean made him so alone. 

I hate you.

Why didn’t he fight for him? 

Tell him.

He must not have been worth fighting for. 

I love you.

Maybe if he had said it sooner, he would have tried. Maybe if he had said it sooner they could both be dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic's not dead y'all! 
> 
> I meant to have this chapter out before I was away from my computer for 2 weeks, *Jeff Goldblum* but life uh... gets in the way. Regardless I'm back to work with my novel and this lovely little fic! Keep an eye out for chapter 5!


	5. Kill Them All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruber has had enough of this wasteland, stewing in the thought that he hadn't been worth fighting for. What's the point of fighting for his own life when his love would not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Homophobia, Slurs, Implied Rape, Suicidal Thoughts/Actions
> 
> Thanks again to Anacoana for coming back to beta read my nonsense <3

“Stand down, Gallean.” Barcan growled into his ear, lips and teeth trailing up his throat, spit black as tar. How was Gallean to hear him when he was so quiet? He kept fighting as Ruber trembled on his knees.

“Little pervert. How did it feel fucking the son of some Aesir witch?” Gallean’s mother was still on the ground, a red halo around her golden hair. Ruber flinched at the blade at his throat. His brothers were screaming.

“I hate you.”

“Drop your sword or I’ll slit your trophy faggot’s throat.” The elder purred. His teeth were sharp. Gallean kept cutting men down. So much blood. Why had it come to so much blood? Why did love lead to such violence?

“Or was it your mother, the Vanir, who was the trickster, laying spells over my men?”

“Tell him it isn’t true!” his little brother cried. Their mother was already lifeless. He told himself the pool of red about her was just her soft hair.

“You are not my son.” Gallean’s father hollered with a madness over his broken daughters with bruised faces, bleeding throats and a stream of red between their legs. Gallean fought for them. He fought with such a fury as the silver steel of his blade was turned an irrevocable shade of crimson.

“Just put it down, it’ll make this all easier.” Elder Barcan’s lips ghosted over the shell of his ear. He trembled.

“Don’t you want to know what a real Cimmerian feels like?” Barcan pressed into his backside and he cried out in fear. The ringing of steel and song of swords came to a clattering halt and Gallean stopped. Stopped and looked. And watched.

_Help me, Gallean._

His voice would not come. His tongue was leaded, unmoving though he gasped and screamed in terror as it felt like his very bones were turning to ice. The shock tearing across his skin.

_Help me._

_Fight for me._

_Dear Crom, save me._

But no. His Gallean only watched. His Gallean would not help him, fight for him, or save him. He watched as the blood started in his hair, dripping down, streaming from his eyes like he was weeping with it all, pouring from his mouth until he was soaked with it. Watching.

_I hate you._

_Help me._

_I love you._

_Kill them all._

_I hate you._

X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------X

Ruber woke with a strangled cry as he sat upright. A cold droplet slithered down his head and over his nose. Water?

His panicked mind realized after a moment that he was not alone. Korgoth knelt beside him with a damp rag in his hands. Damn that pitying look. He hated it. Hated it with all the loathing he could summon for that color. Gold as the sun, as dunes. Gold as a coin that sold him out. And those damn hands. They reached for him.

Fear raced across every nerve, lifting the hairs on his arms and twisting in his gut. All the air was forced from his lungs and no matter how quickly he breathed it would not come back as his mind crumbled inwards and sent him scrambling for the corner of the room. And those eyes looked so surprised now.

The Darfari slithered towards him, just one movement. One knee closer. And it terrified him. Ruber couldn’t control his limbs as they jumped like hot coals thrown into a puddle of cold water. Shaking like he was in a fit of falling sickness. A sob bubbled up from his throat and he buried his face into his knees for how he was wracked with the violence of his crying. The anger and the sorrow left nothing but a hole in his chest as they ate away at what little was left of him.

Those disgusting words that Barcan had purred in his ear, beaten, bruised, bound, and gagged as he and Gallean could only wait for death or exile. Whatever came first. Gallean hadn’t even watched. He just shut his eyes and cringed at every sound that made it past his gag as he tried to call for help. For Gallean.

X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------X

Korgoth had left him to his tears; finally, the beast did something right.

Ruber huddled for a while on his furs, staring at the full waterskin, lost in an oblivion, a lack of thought. 

One week.

A week in this thrice damned and desolate wasteland. He had known he would die here, but for some reason, now it felt just a little more real.

He sat up, and then he stood, leaving the waterskin behind. He opened the door and stepped out.

Korgoth was nowhere to be seen. Just as well. Even a beast abandoned him. He just wasn’t worth any of it, was he? Ungrateful. Selfish. It was thanks to him that he even survived this long, though all it did was prolong the inevitable. Beasts. They lived in the moment. For the day. Surviving each breath with no thought of the next. They didn’t see the futility of it. But Ruber was a man. A human being as much as his Cimmerian father and Vanir mother could have been. Maybe the world thought less so for the way he preferred men. But he was. And his heartbeat whispered.

_I am. I am. I am._

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to be anymore.

He went on. He wasn’t sure where he was going. Towards the river, but with no real thought as to where his feet might take him.

He stepped into the water, wading deeper and deeper, until he pushed off the bottom, swimming clumsily to the other side. Maybe the crocodiles would get him. Maybe he would drown anyway. It seemed a decent enough way to die.

But all too soon he felt the sand of the far shore beneath his hands. It was so much greener here. Here there were flowers, and great leafy palms. An oasis like Korgoth’s just… better.

Small antelope grazed peacefully, seemingly unworried by his presence, like they did not know the cruelties of men. The creatures Korgoth called shalebacks stomped to and fro with little ones meandering between their legs. They kept a close eye on him, but otherwise they too, cared little about his presence. He dared to think he saw a rhino lazing in the shade, out of the hot morning sun. There was some beauty in this despicable place.

Just once he looked back, turning to see the place from which he had come. It was a sad sight. The sandstone block walls peeking through the palms beyond the river. And from here, without Korgoth about and busying himself with whatever heathen craft he devised, it looked abandoned. Hollow. It almost felt like a reflection.

There was just so much hurt that twisted up in his guts. Writhing and so sad it felt angry, sinking into a void that numbed the edges of his mind. He almost enjoyed the feeling. Feeling his mind go dark. Blank. Like an unglazed vase with its smooth and dull exterior. Done well there wouldn’t have even been fingerprints.

It almost felt like a sigh of relief, that thought. Pottery. It was what he’d always done. Hours sat behind his wheel, mind wandering as his hands worked. Soothing. Now it was his body that wandered as his mind shaped clay in his head. His mind that remembered the feeling of smoothing wet clay into shape. The silky not-yet-stone felt real again beneath his fingers. More real than the sand that slipped over his sandals and between his toes. The cold water he whetted his hands with rather than how the fine, rough grains scalded his feet.

The flowers. They would look beautiful on a pot. His mother’s water jug that he never got to finish. He made her a new one in his head. And he painted the flowers on in their sunny yellow. Aloe too, in pale green and red.

He didn’t think about the desert, or the hot sand, the harsh sun or the animals that might have hunted the lesser beasts as he wandered away from the lush oasis by the riverbank. He ignored how the light glaring off of the dunes hurt his eyes and burned their blank image onto the back of his eyelids, and how his skin went pink and blistered red soon after. He didn’t think about the blue sky. Or the red sky. Just pottery and the soft clay under his hands. Pretending it was the heat of his kiln until the cold of night sank around him.

He was delirious when he saw the lights in the blurry darkness. All part of the heat, the hunger, the thirst. That’s what it felt like. Two points of gold in the dark. Like the eyes of the Darfari man. And mesmerized by the hallucination, he paused. It felt like he had anyway. He could barely register the knives and the shouting, his mind turning over the experience like going through water, or something thicker, like honey. Loud and loud and loud.

People. And they shouted at him, but if they had been in his tongue, they turned to nonsense in his head. There were people here. How odd. People with gold bracelets. They shoved and pulled at him. It didn’t hurt. It should have but it didn’t. Not even when they shoved him to his knees and hit him.

And then they stopped. They stopped because another person had appeared. And he was bronze in their torchlight, his sword, white. He was shouting too. And his sword was red. It was beautiful. He loved when he got the glazing just right and his pots came out that color. He knew all sorts of flowers he could paint that color now.

The people were gone now. He didn’t know where they went. Maybe they’d gone under the sand. That would be odd.

But suddenly the sand and the dunes were gone. He was looking up at the night sky now, and somebody was carrying him. It was nice. Strong arms under his knees and his back. The strong chest he was pressed against breathed evenly. Warm. He looked up at the moon.

He didn’t think of stargazing with Gallean. He didn’t think about sitting around the fire, eating something they cooked together. No matter how hungry he got. The taste of wine, as his throat burned for drink. The feel of warm hands on his body that warded off the bitter cold of night.

It was all _his_ fault that he was out here. _His_ fault for kissing him all that time ago. He made him believe. Believe Gallean loved him. He hadn’t even been worth fighting for. All that talk about going away, about making a better life for themselves, it had all been a lie. Some stupid lie to keep him coming back.

And suddenly he was back. They day they found out. The day they _all_ found out. And Elder Barcan growled in his ear. Shouted in his ear. Louder the more blood there was on the ground. In the sand.

I hate you.

You are not my son.

I hate you.

Tell them it’s not true.

I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

Kill them all. That’s what he wanted to say. He’d forgotten what he really said. Kill them all. He laughed, somewhere in his head. He didn’t mind when the knife cut his throat.

Kill them all. Feeling the life drain out of him, unconsciousness pulling at him as the blood kept flowing. The bronze figure in the night and his white sword.

Kill them all. Kill them all.

Kill them all.

 

“I’m so scared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left me such lovely comments. I never meant to be away from this for so long, but I'm back now and I hope you enjoyed this extra dark chapter. I can't make any promises for regular updates, but I can let you all know that I'm not going to let this fic die. Even if the chapters are years apart (kinda like this one (ง ื▿ ื)ว ) I'll always come back to it to give you an update. Kisses! (*¯ ³¯*)♡


	6. If There's a Prize for Rotten Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Korgoth tends to the listless and battered Ruber for five thankless days. As he feels his frustration getting the better of him, a day to relax seems to be just what he needs. But there's only so long the so-called Cimmerian can stay out of his head, and with one little act of selflessness comes a small victory. 
> 
> But will Ruber see it that way?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the extra long chapter loves! Thanks again to Anacoana for beta reading!

Korgoth winced himself awake, feeling the burning ache in his neck as he slept sitting with his back to the wall. His hut was still dark, blue moonlight filtering in through the cracks of the door. Day wasn’t even close to arriving, but he already had a sinking suspicion of what had woken him up as he rubbed the crick out of his neck. His eyelids seemed heavier each time they went through this, and as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, the thought of keeping them shut and trying to go back to his dreams was tempting.

Tempting, but not worth it, and he cracked his eyes back open to glance over at the figure who’d taken his bed.

Ruber shook and sweated through his dreams. Terrors more than anything, but nothing Korgoth hadn’t seen before. Or hadn’t experienced himself.

He groaned as he got up, sore everywhere he cared to think about, and he sat on the edge of the bed. His hand soothed over the “Cimmerian’s” sweat-soaked brow, brushing the coppery-crimson hair away from his bruised face and careful over the sun-sick reddened skin. It woke him eventually, sometimes with a start, and sometimes he came around more gently, but once he opened his eyes the fight always went out of him, and he would allow Korgoth to place a damp cloth to his painful skin and make him drink before falling back asleep. But no matter how much he slept, the bruised bags under his eyes only worsened.

By day he was never much better, staying in Korgoth’s bed with his eyes glassy and fixed on the ceiling or something in the room. Even when Korgoth needed to leave, he always found him right there, maybe having rolled over in all the time he’d had alone, only ever bothering to get up to relieve himself. He even took food and drink like a cripple, needing every ounce of Korgoth’s coaxing and guiding hands for the smallest bite and sip. And though bruised and bloodied, sun-sick and sore, Ruber was not too physically injured to be able to do it all himself.

But maybe if he had shown up a few years ago, Korgoth wouldn’t have understood the way he did now. For some people it wasn’t the physical toll of living in the Exiled Lands that broke them. Sometimes it was what they had left behind. What they lost. And something about that was just all the more heartbreaking, especially when it was someone like Ruber who had come to him with so much life, such a fighting spirit. Because sometimes it just took feeling safe for it to finally reach them.

Ruber wouldn’t have been the first he lost to it, and he wouldn’t have blamed him, he never did. But that never stopped him from fighting. He had to when they couldn’t do it for themselves.

But Korgoth was human too, and every small thing he had to fight for wore at him over those days. Anything from as simple as trying to put aloe on Ruber’s blistering skin and his dark bruises to as complicated as trying to bathe him when he shied from any touch below his face was nearly impossible. It tore at him to force his touch on Ruber, even as he trembled or managed to recover enough of his will to push him away, but if he wouldn’t care for himself, Korgoth had to.

He hid his frustration as much as he could, but at times the way the man lashed out was enough to make him head for the door and take some time to pace in the shade or gather firewood. It was always the pretty ones that had attitudes. The angriest at losing what they had, the most entitled and the least grateful. There were times he wondered why he tried.

But that was never a productive thought, and he pushed it to the back of his mind like he always did as he set up a small hide in the shade of a tree while some termites he’d gathered were gently roasting beside the fire in a curled leaf. And for dessert, a hearty number of berries that had just gotten ripe enough to pick and sweet enough to be worth savoring every morsel of his limited supply. Today was going to be a day he would relax. Ruber wouldn’t be going anywhere and he still had enough dried meat stored for a few days before he needed to go out hunting again. He would stop in to make sure he ate and drank, but not just yet. Just some time to himself on a relatively cool day.

He went down to the river to fill his waterskin, and with no crocodiles in sight, he relished the feeling of splashing the cool water on his face and the back of his neck. It left a fantastic chill on his skin as he went back into the shade, a deep relief from the heat, and perfect for his day to himself. All to himself.

But as he got back to his shady spot, it suddenly didn’t seem all that welcoming. The place was perfect still, the shade covering all the space he could want to lounge, his favorite treat finally in season, and a cool breeze that caressed his face. Everything was just as he wanted it.

But beyond it was his home. His home with every brick he’d lain himself. And it was just so… quiet. It had never bothered him before, not for a long time since the Old Man had passed so gently in his sleep. But now, there was somebody in it. And it still felt so quiet. And for some reason it bothered him now.

Korgoth eyed his spot. And then he sighed, knowing he might very well end up regretting this. He went back to his home.

At the door, he hesitated, feeling rather awkward with his sudden choice, left staring uncertainly at the door. He felt almost like he should knock before he intruded.

His frustration returned with a sudden force then. This was his home. His door. Why in the world would he feel unwelcome or as if he might be intruding when it was his. Every brick and piece of wood that he placed himself. It was the strange man that slept like a corpse in his bed that should have felt awkward, or in the least bit grateful.

Korgoth wiped a hand down his face, brushing away his own agitation. He would get nowhere with those thoughts. If Ruber fought him, he could always come back out to enjoy his own day like he planned. He opened the door.

Ruber was right where he left him, staring blankly at the ceiling. His freshly washed hair splayed over the roll on which his head was rested was already greasy with sweat, limp and dull like a forgotten doll left to gather dust. He only seemed to take notice of the change in light when he realized Korgoth was heading straight towards him, his head tilted to the side with his pale green eyes shining with battling resignation and anxiety. He licked his chapped lips nervously and only moved when Korgoth didn’t pause beside the bed and instead began to lean in.

Korgoth hushed him and slipped a hand under his back and knees before he could make any real protest.

“Fresh air will do you some good.” He said as the man in his arms pushed a hand against his chest but didn’t fight back more than that.

He left his hand there. It was surprisingly soft, if a little cool. It only reminded Korgoth that he was clearly some great beauty who lived a soft life. All entitlement and chatter. He plainly wasn’t a Cimmerian. Cimmerians were warriors, like the mighty Conan. A real Cimmerian wouldn’t have soft hands like that, and they certainly didn’t have that flaming red hair. The man was a Vanir through and through. A small one though. He’d heard they were supposed to be giants. Enough of the Vanir Raiders were. Maybe he was one of their sorcerers, a Völva. Some pretty thing probably kept as a pet in the lap of luxury until his master got bored. How he settled in Korgoth’s arms like he was made for being carried and held close only proved his point as he brought him outside.

Ruber settled limply where Korgoth put him in the shade on the hide he’d set up for himself, evidently displeased with being outside when all he wanted to do was mourn in the dark. If he really hated it so much he could simply get up and walk back inside. But that would have been an act of sheer will, something he had very little of these past few days. And if he couldn’t manage it, the fresh air and daylight would help a little anyway.

But upset as he was, Ruber did not move from the spot except to look up at Korgoth. It made him pause. It was the first time in the days since he saved him from the Raiders that he even acknowledged his presence for more than fear of his approach. His bright green eyes stunned him as the man looked up, and for a moment it felt like he might say something. Like there was something he wanted, or as if he might suddenly thank him. His cracked lips pouted, their corners turned down as he fixated for that moment.

But that was all it was. A moment. And then he dropped his eyes to the sand and slumped against the tree without a word. Korgoth tried not to feel too disappointed. To think he was actually hopeful for the bitchiness and ungrateful attitude to return.

He settled opposite of him in a soft patch of dry grass in the shade and pulled the nicely crisped insects away from the fire, shaking the leaf they were in gently to turn them and let them cool. He offered them to Ruber first, knowing they would be rejected with a disdainful eye before he’d even tried. But try he did, only to be ignored, of course. He shook his head with a shrug. More for him then.

Korgoth settled in to his spot, satisfied that he’d done enough for the man for the time being, and relaxed as he looked out to the river. It was perhaps his most peaceful and most enjoyable pastimes. The cool blue water drifting by with the sound of wind in the grass an endlessly soothing balm for when his mind was most troubled. And troubled he very much was. Especially when he could feel eyes on him in the stillness and quiet.

He stifled a sigh and crunched away at his cooked termites as casually as he could. Whatever it was that Ruber suddenly wanted, Korgoth couldn’t have guessed. And as it turned out, he didn’t have to.

“Please say something.”

Korgoth turned to the unexpected sound of Ruber’s voice. The man hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the tree. But his eyes, tearful as they were amidst old green bruises, were set on him. His bottom lip trembled.

“Please talk to me.” His voice choked on a half-aborted sob, and he waited without hope in his eyes.

Now this was a stark change from vehemently telling him to shut up. Truth be told, he was so surprised he took a moment to simply stop and stare. He wanted him to talk? What to say then? Korgoth was a man of few words. Rarely was there anyone to talk to, and the desert hadn’t taken his mind that he spoke to himself yet.

He had half a mind to stay quiet, or if he spoke to point out only that the man had told him to shut up when he tried to make a joke. The little brat would have deserved as much. But Korgoth was not a cruel man, as much as Ruber seemed to believe it so.

“I was a builder.” He said. And it was the truth. He had been a builder before he came here. Learning from his father and grandfather and his brother. The man across from him sighed with audible relief and swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“You built all of this?” There, at the edges of his voice, a peculiar something. Korgoth almost smiled at it, but he popped another insect in his mouth instead with a nod and a hum. Ruber looked over to his little home with a new appreciation in his eyes. He’d set every brick that was there, breaking it himself from the stone around him and shaping it just right. It was humble, with scarce materials so far at the edge of the extensive lands, but he was proud of it. He wondered what Ruber might think when he saw the more impressive buildings he’d constructed.

“How long have you been here?” Ruber asked distantly.

“Nine years.”

“That’s so long…” Korgoth couldn’t tell if he meant it like he expected someone might have freed him by now, or if he was just surprised he’d survived this long. He didn’t know he hadn’t done it alone.  Didn't know nobody had to.

The Old Man had been so good to him and his brother. Meeting them in his little camp by the river. He nursed them back to health, taught them how to hunt and to heal and to live in this land before he showed them the way to the City like he had with so many others. And when Korgoth lost his brother he came back and built this home right here where the Old Man had made his camp so long ago and cared for him until his time finally came and it was up to the Darfari to take up the sometimes-thankless task.

“Why were you sent here?” Korgoth thought a moment and then counted them out on his fingers.

“Lecherous behavior, sullying a virgin, and rape.” If Ruber could have gone pale beneath his burns he would have done so.

“…Oh.” Korgoth rolled his eyes.

“Not true. I found my brother’s betrothed with another man and she told the priest I defiled her out of jealousy. Our family was destroyed. He and I were left here to end the line.” She had also tried to take back her story rather quickly when she realized she’d be exiled too for indecency and seducing a man that was not her husband to be, even if it was his brother. She didn’t make it off the cross.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” Ruber managed the energy to look suspicious. Korgoth tried very hard not to smile when he saw it. It was cute. Or it would be until his full attitude returned.

“I do not share beds with women.” He shrugged. Ruber’s mouth went slack as he glanced about nervously, and Korgoth did indeed smirk at the look on his face and his gaping as he tried to stammer out a response. He tried to hide it as he slipped a berry into his mouth, the juice sweet and plentiful as it popped between his teeth.

“You—I don’t—That’s—You cannot be serious. How can you admit something so lightly? What if someone were to hear?”

“What will they do, exile me?” Korgoth laughed, so worried, and only worried for what others might think and not that he was in the presence of someone who desired men. Now he was not someone to wonder who kept whose company, but he’d already had his suspicions for how he clung to him so easily and whispered a man’s name in his sleep.

He never felt the need to know what someone had done to find themselves in the Exiled Lands. Whether what was on their papers was true or not, the reasons would soon show themselves when they settled in. Ungrateful and a slight bit bitchy Ruber might have been, but it was for a far unkinder reason that he was sent here. He could not be certain unless the Vanir had the want to tell him, but the very likely suspicion would haunt him.

“You said… your brother is here?” Korgoth lost his smile then and he sighed. It stung less now, but there were times he still missed his big brother.

“Not anymore.” There was a pregnant pause. Korgoth ate his berries in the silence, one by one savoring their sweet taste. His brother was the first one he’d ever gotten to share them with. Maybe Ruber would like them too.

“How long?”

“Three years.” And for the Old Man, only one.

“How?” Korgoth smiled up at him. Or tried very hard to. He was asking questions. Nosy ones, but he was curious. He was coming back.

“The same way I almost lost you.” Granted his brother hadn’t been out wandering the desert with the intent to die when the Raiders took his life. No, his brother had been a good and honorable man right to the very end. Rafa and the Sanctuary would have burned to the ground otherwise. It made him proud.

But Ruber seemed to take it like a slap to the face as he reeled and frowned. His shoulders trembled with a buckling chin as he looked away, and Korgoth couldn’t help but wonder what he’d said wrong now. He’d only answered the question that was asked of him.

Ruber covered his mouth as he struggled to compose himself while Korgoth struggled with the thought of trying to comfort him. He had no idea if the gesture would be welcome, but at the same time the man had become far more tolerant of physical comfort. Or had he? It might have only been his overall apathy that had allowed it, and a wrong move now could send him back to it. On the other hand, a vehement response might only help him. A stray tear made up his mind and he crossed over to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

The man started instantly, eyes flying to the hand that touched him and then up to the man behind it nervously. Korgoth pulled his legs underneath him to sit cross-legged, and as minimally threatening as possible. But maybe that was the wrong thing to do as Ruber seemed to settle into a numbness again, staring at him blankly. A strong reaction would have been much more preferable.

He pulled his hand away as Ruber drew up his knees, hugging around them a he wiped his tears on the rough fabric. It felt like defeat. Korgoth sighed and planted one of his feet to stand up.

Then he heard a little voice muffled by the cloth.

“Why are you so kind to me?” He looked back at the man just as pale green eyes met his. “I’ve been nothing but ungrateful and selfish and I don’t know why you even let me stay in the first place.” Ruber sniffled. Korgoth was momentarily paralyzed by the sight. The heartbreakingly lost look with his eyes red and puffy from far too much crying to be healthy for a person. His hair limp and tired as the rest of him, though freshly washed. And those bright green eyes that finally looked at him, _really_ looked at him. And he apologized, or close enough to it anyway to acknowledge his actions.

But he’d apologized with a harder question than Korgoth had been expecting. There was an answer of course, but he must tread carefully. It might not go over well.

“It is… not easy here. I help people who survive the cross. Teach them how to live here.” He watched as Ruber’s eyes grew wider with each passing moment that he listened. His mouth parted slightly in surprise.

“There are others?” He asked with a hush. Korgoth only nodded. “Where?” Here was where he must tread carefully, but how to begin? He had no idea and only sighed as he hesitated with his words.

“…There is a city. To the North. Where everyone goes.” Ruber’s eyes lit with a sudden spark, something too near to hope that it was stunning. But it soured quickly as realization dawned on him.

“I was right. You do know where people are. But instead you kept me here! All this time!” He shoved Korgoth to the ground suddenly and grabbed him by the shoulders. “You lied to me!”  

Now there was a long list of things the Darfari had gotten used to being called. Many things he could tolerate. But he was not and would never be a liar.

“I do not lie.” He grit out as calmly as he could as he shoved Ruber back up and off of him.  It startled Ruber and his weak grip. “I saved you.” The ungrateful little twat sat back heavily as he let the reminder settle harshly.

He should have known better than to go after Ruber when he wandered into the desert. He’d never done that for anyone that decided they’d rather run off than accept the hospitality of someone like him. Even when they stole what they could there was nothing that couldn’t be replaced. Nothing was worth risking his life out among the hyenas and spiders and occasional rocknose. And those were some of the lesser things one had to worry about out there.

Except Ruber _had_ been worth it for some reason. It was stupid of him. So incredibly stupid. But Korgoth knew he had lost it the moment he turned around and saw the so-called “Cimmerian” pointed his sword right at him. The Cimmerian who looked every ounce a proud Vanir. There had been so much fight in him, such a spark of life. It almost hurt to see it gone. But now that it was back and with all of his entitled nonsense behind it, Korgoth felt it sting at his pride and his good common sense.

“Why, then? Why keep me here?” He spat. Good. Let him be angry.

“You were not ready.”

“Not ready! I wanted to find other people from the first day. I was ready then!” The man shouted at him, grating at his senses.

“No. You went out on your own and almost died.”

“I don’t want to be here!”

The entitled little wretch. Now this was the last straw for Korgoth as he took him roughly by the arm, the burnt skin hot under his palm as the man yelped in pain and fear, fingers scrabbling at the hand that held him. And he froze in terror as Korgoth pulled him close to his face, tears rising to the surface.

“Nobody wants to be here!” He shouted. Nobody wanted to be here any more than he did. He was not going to get his way any more than anyone else in this desert and he would learn it now or when the Exiled Lands ripped him apart. He shoved Ruber back down and let him go, watching the man huddle in on himself and cry as he cradled his arm.

And shaking, Korgoth came down from the knotting anger in his gut as it turned into regret. He knew better. He knew Ruber hadn’t meant it like that. Or maybe he had, who knew. But he knew better than to yell. Than to hurt when he was angry. He should have been past this. Past being angry at the people who were ungrateful and could only seem to look at anyone skin deep. Why did it hurt him so much that this man couldn’t seem to do that? Even if he was tired of it, he shouldn’t bother proving them right. He should have let him die out there if that was what he truly wanted.

But that was what so starkly frustrated Korgoth. The man’s simultaneous unwillingness to fight on and biting attitude at anyone who tried to help. Nobody wanted to be here, but it was like Ruber had enough anger in his body for the world and everyone in it, including himself. It broke his heart that anyone could carry so much hurt for so long.

But it shouldn’t have mattered. He shouldn’t have let it get the better of him, and even if he had let himself shout, he knew better than to throw around a sick man.

He settled back on his heels, an apology on his tongue though he was hesitant to reach out.

But Ruber looked up with a sudden halt to his tears. Like he had sensed Korgoth was about to speak. And the fire in his eyes made him suddenly fearful that he had indeed been blessed with the fabled powers of Vanir sorcery. What terrible and wicked spell he might cast in vengeance. And though no spell escaped his lips, his words still shook Korgoth to his bones.

“I hate you.” He said with hissing vehemence. “I hate you.” And he got to his feet, darting away with his heels kicking up sand as he hurried towards the spare house he’d called home until he ran away. And Korgoth was left sitting there, alone in the shade with his food and his river and his wind in the grass. Just like he wanted. And Ruber had woken from his daze with a fiery passion and all that anger again. Just like he wanted.

But none of that went the way he wanted. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. That's not how this chapter was supposed to go. Whoopsies! ♡ ヽ(￣ω￣(。。 )ゝ
> 
> Surprise Korgoth POV!


	7. Móðir Mín

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a month in exile, and with the promise of civilization on the horizon Ruber is learning how to survive the harsh lands. It grates on him, but he finally finds one corner of his mind which can offer him peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I should be working on my book. __φ(。。;)

Ruber wiped the sweat from his brow as he knelt by another shaleback nest. The heavy eggs rocked gently together in the pouch he set down beside him to add more to his collection. These creatures laid eggs a bit like chickens. Very big and dangerous chickens. Once a day like clockwork, and with no ability to count how many they’d laid they just kept going until their nest was full. They seemed to care as much as chickens, lounging about as long as he didn’t bother their squealing younglings that trotted to and fro. 

He took all but one of the eggs, settling them in his bag. A few large eggs for two grown men made for a hearty meal. A reliable one at that, and far more appetizing than the enormous grubs that lingered beneath the trees.

. Just one of the few things he’d begrudgingly learned from Korgoth.

He was learning from a Darfari.

Who better than someone so at home here, he supposed. There was nothing else to do in this wasteland but die.

Crom, that had been tempting. It would have been so easy then. His mind had been so far gone that he wouldn’t have felt whatever pain came for him. It would have all been over so easily.

When he woke in Korgoth’s bed, he wasn’t certain he was glad to have been saved. Truthfully, the thought of sneaking out while the Darfari was absent and casting himself through the Cursewall had gone through his mind a number of times. There would have been nothing of him to save then. But it all came back to the same fear. The fear that if he died through that glassy prison wall, there would be nothing left of him to enter heaven. No soul to reunite with Gallean.

And Gallean. He spent all that time abed thinking of him. Of how he missed him. How he was done being angry at him for something that wasn’t his fault. Done being mad at a memory. Because that was all he was now. Just a memory.

He’d lost everything too, including his own life. His family died in the same red puddles that became the summation of half a dozen human lives.

What would he say to him now? What a coward he’d been. Gallean should be up in heaven screaming at all that he’s done. Cowardly. Seeking out death and even then, he avoided the easiest and most certain way to die. Taking help from a Darfari. The Darfari that he now owed his life to. That he let _touch_ him. He was only grateful that the beast hadn’t tried to defile him in that time he had been so beside himself. He wouldn’t have had the strength to fight him off.

And if Gallean hadn’t the stomach to bear that a Cimmerian man had ruined him, there was no chance that he would have chosen to welcome him at the gates of Heaven once he allowed a Darfari to do so. He was probably already shaking his head in dismay with the rest of his family.

Disgusting and foolish; that’s all Ruber had been. Letting that Darfari lead him around, touching him, carrying him around. He almost _trusted_ him. That was one of the few things Korgoth had done right. He reminded Ruber not to. Not to trust anyone in this wasteland of criminals and cannibals and thieves.

He really was learning from the Darfari.

But he could do that. He could learn from Korgoth and bide his time until he reached his abstract and ill-defined status of “ready”. Then he would take him to civilization. What civilization there could be when it was made by the wretched of the earth, Ruber could only wonder. But maybe that was why Korgoth was preparing him.

He could do that. Be prepared and build his strength. Then he could live here, either in the city, or if it was too savage a place he could make his very own. A place just like Gallean had wanted. Somewhere cool in the shade. A garden full of food and a stream of fresh water to quench his thirst. A place to do his pottery again, glazing them all sorts of fantastic colors. Something to make his days go by. He could be his own king. Just like Gallean wanted. And he would make a safe haven for people like him, sent out to the desert to die for crimes that weren’t crimes at all. It would be perfect.

Ruber pressed his palms together and touched his hands to his brow.

“I beg that you all will forgive me.” He prayed. “I will make you proud. Crom give you all peace.”

He jumped as a whistle cut through him. Korgoth was calling him back, whistling like he was a dog because the Darfari felt he’d been away for too long. And it had proven to be better to heed his call than ignore it and face the annoyed cannibal tracking him down just to watch whatever it was he was doing.

So much for making them proud.

Just a little while longer. He would not be this Darfari’s lapdog forever, hurrying to his feet when he was called. Chasing after that whistle. Even if he took the chance to run away now with what he knew, he would have nightmares of that whistle calling him back across the desert.

Ruber followed the call to the river, haste picking up his feet as he dreaded having Korgoth come find him. Or worse; whistle a second time. He stepped out of the cool shade and followed the bank, savoring the cool feeling of walking through ankle deep water. The sun was less harsh today with the wind encouraging him and every other creature out of the shadows. Korgoth included as Ruber came around the bend to find him waist deep in water with one of the fishing traps he’d woven in hand.

“Ruber.” He called, smiling brightly like he was surprised to see him, but with his usual “where have you been?” look. Where had he been indeed. He spoke a lot in his looks and his body language, silent as any animal but for a few short barking calls, or if he felt like it as he had when he’d dragged Ruber outside while he was in mourning. Too used to not talking to anyone he supposed, but for someone so used to talking with his actions rather than his words, one would think he could figure out where Ruber had gone when he took the pouch with him.

The very pouch he held up with a roll of his eyes under Korgoth’s scrutiny. But the sight of it heavy with eggs seemed to surprise him and he waded quickly out of the water, trailing the fishing trap behind him.

And naked as the day he was born.

He averted his eyes quickly, fumbling with the pouch as he held it out to Korgoth’s waiting hand. Crom help him, the man had no shame it seemed. Not the slightest flinch to his confidence as he came out of the water without thinking and though nothing of Ruber looking away.

Now he could understand not wanting to get his clothing wet, but really, at least something like the simple and comfortable breechclout that Ruber had made himself to wear on hot days (as he did now) would have been just fine as long as he dried it properly later. Really it was just obscene to stand there. Dripping wet out in the open where anyone could see. Lecherous behavior indeed.

Fine. The Darfari couldn’t be the only one with such… confidence in his own skin. The least Ruber could do is pretend it didn’t bother him. If he just kept his eyes up he could pretend he was still clothed from at least the waist down. Thankfully, Korgoth didn’t take long to be satisfied with his inspection and Ruber snatched the bag away as soon as it was offered back to him. But Korgoth seemed to wish to stall him with talk.

 “You gathered food.” He sounded impressed, but the look on his face was still much too pleased with himself to have been about that. They had both gathered food as it seemed the fishing trap had worked. The fish slithered with frantic desperation and unpleasant writhing in the shallow water. He knew the feeling.

“Is it really so far-fetched that I would get us a few eggs?” Ruber snapped back, still feeling the sting of his own blush and the nauseating feeling of guilty butterflies in his stomach as the glittering, crystalline drops in his dark hair caught his eye. The dark locks hung loose, kinking and curling over his broad, summer-brown shoulders.

“Alone.” Korgoth added. Why yes, he— “And I did not ask you.”

Sure. Fine. So maybe the only times he went out on his own without prompting was to think… and feel sorry for himself. And to do a great deal of praying and crying away from pitying eyes. So maybe he went out for food on his own because he’d wanted something.

“Yes, well… I thought it would go well with the fish.” He shrugged self-consciously. Korgoth nodded in approval but stayed silent until it felt shamefully awkward and Ruber couldn’t tell if he should wait to be dismissed or not. But when Korgoth decided to open his mouth again it was enough to make Ruber’s ears ring with how the blood rushed to his face.

“You know… there is no shame—”

“Please, for the love of Crom, just shut up.” He said it quickly, and with far less vehemence that the first time he’d told the Darfari to shut his filthy trap, but he hoped he got the message across as he hurried away.

No shame. No shame indeed. What in the world could he have been implying? That he wanted to look?

Ruber hurried inside to his little shack and slammed the door shut, slumping down against the wall and curling in on himself. His stomached worked itself nauseously and in twisted with anxious knots. Because he did. He wanted to look. He wanted to look and for it to be Gallean. He wanted his Gallean to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

He buried his head in his hands, but he did not cry. He was tired of crying. He just wanted and payed and wished beyond anything he knew was possible that when he looked back up, he’d be home again. That he could sit down with his pottery, or sneak a kiss from Gallean when he came to pick up a new spice jar for his mother. He wanted to go out to the garden with his own mother and tell him about what a horrid nightmare he’d had just so she could soothe it away with a lullaby and a kiss on his brow.

He wanted so many things that he couldn’t have. He didn’t want the things he did have. He didn’t want to be here. But that only made Korgoth’s stinging words come ringing back so loud in his mind he clamped his hands over his ears. _Nobody_ wanted to be here.

But it didn’t make it any less true. He could try to make a home here all he wanted, but it wouldn’t be his home. There was no Gallean. His brothers weren’t here. His mother wasn’t here. His family was gone before he’d even left home behind.

He could pretend though. Dear Crom if the world would only just let him pretend.

There was a bowl of dried berries he’d set aside to save for later. Yet another gift he owed Korgoth for. But he didn’t think about that. He only needed one now. One didn’t matter, and it mattered so much at the same time. It was for that reason that he sat there for a long and quiet moment, his eyes just cracked open to stare at the bowl across the room. And eventually, he got up. What did anything matter anymore?

Nothing mattered. He was going out to garden with his mother. He took what he needed, pretending he was stepping around his pots and his jars that he left in his messy work space. Pretending the room wasn’t barren. Pretending he wasn’t just avoiding the cracks in the flagstone floor.

When he stepped outside he pretended the air wasn’t hot and scorching. That only the cool air when the wind blew was real and instead of sand and palms there was thick earth and sturdy oak trees. Pretended that it was only summertime in the cold north, even though he knew it would only be spring with the cold of April just fading away. Unless he was here longer that he thought.

He didn’t see Korgoth, just his neighbors. Just the people in his village that did their daily chores and smiled at him like they did before they jeered at him. Before they called him a tainted whore. Before they couldn’t bear to spit his name and called him only “The Witch’s Son”. Before they hated him.

And he went next to his little house in the garden where no one could see. And he knelt in the dirt, digging a shallow hole for the seed he would plant and cover it gently back over with a sprinkling of water. In his mind he pretended his mother was there.

And it felt so real. It felt so real he feared he might be going crazy as he pictured her there and everything just wanted to come up at once. He wanted to tell her about the cross. About what a coward he was when he couldn’t look back. About how he met Korgoth and didn’t know what the Darfari wanted. How he was kind and cruel and taught him things he didn’t know he didn’t know. About how he wanted to die so much sometimes it terrified him and he felt so guilty for it because he couldn’t be sure if he should be grateful that he survived at all. About how he was just so lost and so scared.

Ruber wanted to tell her everything and have her brush his hair behind his ears and tell him it was all just a bad dream. He wanted her to sing to make it all go away.

And he sang his favorite lullaby like she would.

 

_Móðir mín í kví, kví,_

_kvíddu ekki því, því;_

_ég skal ljá þér duluna mína_

_duluna mína að dansa í,_

_ég skal ljá þér duluna mína_

_duluna mína að dansa í_

And all the while he sang, pretending it was her voice instead of his, he watched the little seed he planted sprout. It was green and bright against the sand as it broke the surface, roots digging deeper and deeper until it found the water the ground had ready for it. And it grew and split into branches, sprouting leaves and spreading low and wide like a breathing beast crawling from the earth. And little white flowers sprouted and withered in the next breath for bright blue berries to grow round and ripe in their place as his voice tapered away.

It was just like when he would sit with his mother and fill their garden with their memories and their dreams. It felt real. So much so that when he finally looked up to Korgoth, the man watching with a wonder and disbelief in his eyes, that the Darfari felt more of a mirage than the garden. And yet he felt the impulse to speak to his illusion.

“What are you going to do,” Ruber asked. “exile me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Translation:  
> My mother in the pen, pen  
> don't you worry for, for  
> I shall loan you these rags of mine  
> rags of mine to dance in  
> I shall loan you these rags of mine  
> rags of mine to dance in
> 
> The song is in Icelandic and while a little creepy in origin, I personally find it very soothing and sing it to myself quite often when I'm feeling down or angry so it just made sense that Ruber with a Vanir mother would have known a lullaby like this one and used it similarly. You can listen to a pretty version of it  HERE 


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